And then there were none
by praemonitus praemunitus
Summary: A series of suspicious deaths are hitting close to home for one member of H50. But does he realize just how close? A murder/mystery and not a deathfic (I promise) :)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Hi everyone! I had this idea floating in my head for a while, but, seeing how lately I had absolutely no time to write or even think about writing, I kept putting it off. Until the writing itch became so strong that I just had to start jotting things down before I drive myself crazy. I have the story pretty much figured out in my head, and I will be posting it as time allows. I hope you like the story. I'll do my best to make sure everything is coherent. If, however, after reading this or any of the future chapters, you feel completely lost or confused, blame it on my perpetual lack of sleep and/or breathing in too many dirty diaper fumes LOL**

**Here is a little teaser - a prologue chapter. Explanations to follow, but I am always curious to hear your thoughts on the matter. **

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**Prologue**

He pushed open the heavy wooden door, his skin prickling as an unpleasant tremor of foreboding returned once more at the ominous silence that greeted his repeated calls of his partner's name. Gun drawn, he stepped cautiously into the spacious living room, dimly lit by the feeble rays of the setting sun.

"Steve!" he tried once more, dark, gut-churning fear inside him growing steadily as he took note of the destruction around him: an overturned and broken end table, a shattered lamp, a ripped curtain, thrown haphazardly across the couch that has been pushed sideways, almost perpendicular to the wall...

The screech of tires outside announced the arrival of the rest of his team, and he was suddenly glad, so glad that he had the foresight to call them on the way. Because now he wouldn't have to face this - whatever it was that he dreaded he'd find here - alone.

"Ste-e-eve!" His feet, leaden though they were, managed to carry him slowly but surely into the den. And there he stopped, rooted to the spot by the horrifying sight that opened before him. The sounds of the outside world have suddenly gone out, as if someone had pulled down a giant shut-off switch, and all he could hear was the maddeningly fast, terrified thumping of his own heart, while he stared, numb and unblinking, at the familiar figure of his friend that hung limp and broken in the middle of a hopelessly trashed room.

He made no sound, as Kono's horrified "Oh, god..." was whispered behind him, the cousins rushing past him into the room. He made no move, as Chin bear-hugged Steve's body just below the waist, pushing him desperately upward, while Kono slashed furiously at the rope that was snagged tightly on the overhead light fixture, the loop at its other end digging viciously into McGarrett's neck.

All he could do was stare at the seemingly harmless square of white paper that was pinned with cold precision onto his partner's rumpled, bloodied shirt. Stare at it, knowing with bleak certainty what was written on the inside of that folded note. Stare at it, knowing that he so completely and irreparably failed his best friend.

**TBC**

**Please review ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Oh, my... I was definitely not expecting such an amazing response. You, guys, have absolutely floored me. Thank you so SO much! I am probably not going to have time to respond to all of you (I'll try), but I want to make sure you know how thrilled I was to get such a warm welcome back from all of you. THANK YOU! **

**I had a bit of free time over the weekend to finish up the next chapter, so I am posting it before things get out of hand again. Thanks for all of your ideas. Nanny would be great, but I have no money for one. And with my other two boys hubby can only do so much to help out. :) So, unfortunately, I'm on my own. But I will try to get this story finished as quickly as I possibly can.**

**So, this chapter (hopefully) gives quite a bit more insight into what is going on. I am hoping things are self-explanatory. If anything is confusing, however (see my note to the prologue about lack of sleep and diaper fumes), do let me know, and I'll try to correct any misunderstandings.**

**Hope you enjoy. Let me know your thoughts.**

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The first note came on a Thursday. An ordinary, uneventful Thursday. An ordinary-looking plain white envelope sitting on top of a motley pile of bills and advertisements. No name on the envelope, other than his own, no return address. Postmarked in Chicago. Inside it - an article from an obscure Chicago newspaper about a tragic death of one Joshua Boyd. This former SEAL and war hero was found dead of an apparent drug overdose on the bathroom floor of his apartment, choked on his own vomit. The article proceeded to lament the society's neglect of returning soldiers, whose calls for help are oft ignored, pushing them toward drugs and alcohol. Clipped to the article was a small folded piece of white paper that contained two neatly printed lines of a poem: _"Ten little soldier boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were nine..."_

Teeth clenched in silent anguish, Steve read the article over and over again, trying to make sense of the words. He knew Josh. Knew him well enough, in fact, to question the truth of it. For Josh he knew was a strong, solid guy. Josh he knew hated drugs, never touched the stuff. And he never was the type to drown his problems in a bottle either.

Sure, Steve hasn't seen him since after their deployment was over, but they've kept in touch. Josh had no family left, but there was a girl waiting for him back in Chicago. And, as far as Steve knew, things were serious enough between them to warrant wedding talk.

He shook his head, a deep frown creasing his features. It made no sense. And this note... Someone's sick idea of a joke?

He reached for the phone then, about to dial another friend of his in Chicago who had ties to the local police department. Before he had a chance to do that, however, his phone rang on its own, and Steve pursed his lips unhappily.

"Hello, Governor." And just like that the letter was briefly forgotten. And it was another 72 hours before it had a chance to once again come to the forefront of his mind.

The governor had a case for them; a gruesome one. A domestic dispute gone bad: a young woman found shot in her home, her ex-husband - a primary suspect, her toddler son missing, presumably kidnapped by same ex. The case has sapped all of their time and energy. There was an urgency to it - the longer the child was missing, the smaller were the chances of finding him alive. And the 5-0 team worked round-the-clock, hoping to beat the odds.

By the time 5-0 located the boyfriend and the scared, though, miraculously, unharmed child; by the time they finished processing the smug "I wasn't about to let the bitch leave the island with my son" bastard and handed the boy over to child services, Steve barely had the energy to make the drive back to his house, stagger over to the living room couch and collapse exhaustedly onto its cushions, dead to the world.

Several hours later he was grudgingly pulled back to awareness by an incessant ringing noise just above his left ear. Confused and disoriented, he peeled his eyes open, blinking owlishly at the brightly lit screen of his cell phone, before fumbling sleepily for the device.

"McGarrett," he grumbled, his voice hoarse from nonuse.

"He-e-ey, Smooth Dog," a familiar voice boomed in his ear. "I wake you up, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Ace," Steve breathed out happily, rubbing a hand down his face to chase away the remainders of sleep. The bedside clock blinked 5:30 a.m., and he groaned inwardly, lamenting his all-too-brief a respite. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Ah, come on, Dog," Kyle "Ace" Walcott sounded somewhat put out by the question. "Is it that unusual for a sailor to be checking up on his old bunkmate?"

Steve pushed himself up and off the couch, wincing at the creak in his neck, the tired muscles protesting any and all movement. "Considering that we haven't spoken in over five years, yeah, I'd say it is." He yawned widely, shaking his head like a dog, as the couch beckoned once more, sleep stubbornly refusing to let him go. Coffee. That's what he needed. Coffee.

Resolutely he shuffled toward the kitchen, repeating his earlier question. "What are you calling about, Kyle?"

There was a sigh of resignation on the other end and then an almost reluctant, "Did you get any strange letters in the mail lately?"

The question stopped him short, his mind going back to the letter, and he gripped the phone tighter, all traces of sleep now gone, vanished. "What do you know about Josh's death?" he gritted out, all of his attention now on the voice on the other end of the line.

"No more than I do about Owen's or Mac's. I'm assuming I got the same letters you did."

Whatever response Steve was expecting, this wasn't it. "Letters? As in more than one?" he mumbled after a beat, head spinning with the implication of what he had just heard.

There was a slight pause on the other end, followed by an incredulous "You didn't get the other two?"

"I...," he swallowed harshly, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't have time to check yet."

He spun around then, spurred on by his own words, his legs carrying him straight to the mailbox. Moments later he was holding two more white envelopes in his trembling hands, identical to the previous one.

The first one, postmarked in Des Moines, Iowa, contained an obituary that announced the tragic passing of Owen Deveraux, who died in his sleep of an apparent heart attack. The note attached to the obituary read: _"Nine little soldier boys sat up very late; One overslept and then there were eight..."_

The second letter contained a small newspaper clipping from Devon, Montana, which reported on a drunken brawl in a local bar that resulted in the death of Jason MacAllister, known to his friends and former comrades in arms simply as "Mac". A sick feeling settled itself in Steve's stomach as he read the attached note: _"Eight little soldier boys travelling in Devon; One said he'd stay there and then there were seven..."_

"He's moving West."

The voice in his ear startled him - he had completely forgotten about the phone. "What?"

"Whoever is doing this, killing off our old crew," Walcott clarified, his voice dry like the desert sand. "I'm assuming you found the other letters."

"I did," Steve nodded, even though Walcott couldn't see him. Walcott believed, much like Steve was starting to, that someone out there was going around the country picking off members of his former team one by one. But why go through the trouble of making their deaths look accidental? Why send these notes? His head was spinning, and he felt a sudden overwhelming urge to sit down. Plopping down onto the steps, he took a deep, calming breath and asked slowly, "You know who's behind this?"

"Not a clue," came the response. "But I would sure as hell like to know who he's going after next. I'd like to get my hands on the bastard. Preferably, before he finishes the goddamn poem."

Steve closed his eyes, thinking furiously. "Call up the others," he said finally, "give them all a heads-up if they don't know the situation yet, and have them hop on the first flight out to Hawaii." He was using his command tone, but he didn't care. He used to be their commanding officer, after all, so they were still his men, he was still responsible.

"Why Hawaii?"

Steve shrugged, once again unseen by his companion. "You say he's moving West - then this is the westernmost point on his list. It'll give us more time to get ready for him," he explained. "Plus it's an island. It's a lot harder to be invisible on an island." _"And it's my turf," _he added silently. _"And nobody messes with my men on my turf."_

The menacing thought was a dark promise of vengeance to come, and he smiled tightly upon hearing Walcott's clipped "You got it, Sir." They were gonna get this son of a bitch, whoever he was.

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**So I'm sure by now you figured out where this is going. I still hope, though, that you'll stick around for the rest of the journey.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your kind reviews and for giving this story a chance! I tried to respond to at least some of you, and I apologize if you have not gotten a response. Things are a bit hectic and no Mary Poppins in my future to keep the older boys from wreaking havoc in my house while they pretend they are (both) Steve McGarrett. I suppose there's something endearing about being awakened at 8 am on a Saturday by screams of "Five-0, hands up!" (if I had had a decent night's sleep that is, oh well...)**

**On with the next chapter. I am trying to make the poem work with the story. I think I got it figured out in a way that it will work, but I'll let you be the judge. :)**

**Disclaimer: The H50 characters do not belong to me. I'm merely borrowing them for the sake of the story, and I promise to put them back as I found them (in mint condition) :)**

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**Chapter 2**

"What have you got, Max?" Danny walked briskly around the Camaro, hurrying to catch up to his partner, and cursing the latter's freakishly long legs in the process.

The quirky ME stood up from where he was squatting over a prone figure that lay in an awkward heap in the middle of a dirt road leading through a cane field, its face buried in the red dust, and turned to the approaching duo.

"Commander, Detective," he nodded curtly, all business. "It is a pleasure to see you."

"Pleasantries, Max? Really?" Steve grinned widely, winking conspiratorially at his partner.

The ME shifted from foot to foot in nervous embarrassment. "You are absolutely correct, Commander. This is neither the time nor the place for such light conversations. My apologies."

Rolling his eyes at Steve's ever-widening grin, Danny waved his in hasty dismissal. "It's alright, Max. Just tell us what we're looking at here."

Max spun back around, more than eager to get back to what he was much more comfortable with than social interactions - his work.

"The victim is male," he began, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact, "around 30-34 years of age. Cause of death is severe cranial trauma from a blow to the back of the head."

Flinching almost squeamishly at the gruesomely misshapen fractured skull, Danny averted his eyes, nodding instead at the blood-covered axe that lay half-buried in the dirt about a foot away from the victim. "That the murder weapon?"

"I would of course wait on the forensics for the final determination," Max cautioned authoritatively, "but, based on the appearance of the wound and the proximity of this particular implement, I would hazard to say that it is, indeed, the murder weapon." Raising his finger solemnly in the air, he added philosophically, "As they say, when you hear hoofbeats, think horses not-"

"Thank you, Max," Danny interrupted with a barely suppressed grin, throwing an expectant look at his partner, who made his way around the man's body and was settling into a crouch next to the victim's head. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed," he added under his breath, watching in mounting concern as Steve's expression changed from that of professionally curiosity to a twisted mask of horror and disbelief.

"Was there a... note with the body?" McGarrett's voice sounded different somehow, strangled, hoarse, and Danny made a move to go to him, but Max's response drew him up short.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there was, Commander." The ME looked only marginally baffled by the SEAL's apparent precognition, as he reached into his pocket to pull out an evidence bag that contained a blood-spattered piece of folded white paper. "This was found clipped to the victim's back. It appears to contain the lines of a poem of some kind. I-"

"Thank you, Max." The former SEAL all but tore the bag out of the other man's hands, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled the paper out, opening it with visible apprehension. His face paled horribly, as he read the contents of the small note, before crumbling it viciously in helpless anger. "Son of a bitch is here," he mumbled to no one in particular. "He's here." The half-whispered, anguished phrase was left hanging in the gentle wind, as McGarrett turned suddenly and stalked off back to the Camaro without another word.

Danny stared in confusion at his partner's retreating back, his mind drawing a blank at such an uncharacteristic, for McGarrett, display. Shaking his head in mute worry, he turned back to the medical examiner with a quick "Call me as soon as you have all the results, Max," before hurrying after his friend at a half-run, lest this new unrecognizable McGarrett should decide to drive off and leave him behind.

H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50

"So... you wanna tell me what that scene back there was all about?" Danny ventured cautiously after a good ten minutes of unbearably tense silence that felt nearly suffocating in the small confines of the car.

"You even got Max baffled, which is a feat in and of itself, mind you. And I am all for stumping Mr. Imperturbability there, but I cannot help but feel this little niggling concern."

He took a quick breath, frowning at the visible tightening of the already rigid muscles in his friend's arms. The wheel of the Camaro squeaked in pitiful protest at McGarrett's overly forceful grip, and Danny pursed his lips in worry, as he pushed on with his attempt to break the iced-over wall of tension that surrounded his partner.

"You wanna know _why_ I feel concerned? The reason is that whenever you, my friend, get this look - this Navy SEAL death glare thing you got going on right now - it usually means that you are about to do something completely, certifiably insane. Which usually translates into about a dozen traffic and law violations and generally leads to me getting shot at."

Danny sighed in frustration, as McGarrett reacted to his tirade with nothing more than a quick tightening of jaw. "Come on, Steve," he pleaded then, desperate to reach his friend, "talk to me before you do something stupid that you and I both know you'll regret."

Steve jerked the car to a stop in front of the headquarters, throwing the shift in "Park" with such ferocity that Danny was sure he'd have to take his poor baby to the mechanic later just to make sure nothing was broken.

"His name is... was Doug. Doug Kleinman," the SEAL spoke finally, his voice hollow, his eyes glued to some unseen point beyond the windshield. "We served together in Iraq a few years ago."

_"Oh, man..." _Danny had already suspected by his friend's odd behavior that he knew the victim. Getting the proof that he was right didn't make him feel any better. "I'm really sorry, man," he offered, turning slightly in his seat to get a better look at his partner. "We're gonna get whoever did this, though, don't worry," he promised enthusiastically, even as he puzzled silently over the kind of man capable of getting the drop on a Navy SEAL. For, whoever it was, had to be pretty close to be able to crack the guy's skull open with an axe. "The one good thing about this pineapple hellhole is that it's an island. Makes it a whole hell of a lot harder to disappear. Whoever this perp is, he won't get a chance to-"

"He's not done," came a reply in the same dull, toneless voice, and Danny felt a chill run down his spine at these words.

"You... you know who he is?"

Steve shook his head, releasing a humorless bark of a laughter. "If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you... No offense."

"Then how do you-?" In the same instant he uttered those words, Danny already knew the answer. "The note," he whispered, knowing immediately from Steve's stiffening posture that his guess had hit the mark. "What did the note say, Steve?"

There was a moment of hesitation before the former SEAL pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to the blond.

_"Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks; One chopped himself in halves and then there were six."_ Danny read the printed words aloud, so focused on the paper before him that he completely missed the slight tremor that ran through his friend's hunched over frame. "Wait... that's... Christie," he mumbled almost to himself.

"Christie?" Steve turned to look at him then for the first time, his face - a mask of confusion.

"Agatha Christie," Danny clarified, pointing at the paper. "These lines, they are from a poem from one of her books. I read it when I was a kid. It's-" He cut himself short, noting the pained look on his friend's face. "You've gotten others, haven't you?"

"Three," Steve confirmed darkly.

"And I'm assuming you checked for prints?"

The taller man nodded mutely, grinding his teeth in frustration, and Danny didn't need any more clarification to know that his friend's efforts in this case turned up fruitless.

Steve pushed himself forcefully away from the wheel, slumping backward against the seat. "It's my former team, Danny," he whispered in tired anger. "He's killing off my team."

The smaller man nodded, biting his lip in sympathy, even as he wracked his brain trying to remember the particulars of the poem. "Ten Little Soldier Boys," he exclaimed suddenly, his eyes widening in realization. "The title of the poem," he explained hurriedly, brushing aside his friend's half-formed question. "Steve... how many men were in your team?"

The SEAL gritted his teeth even harder, if that were possible. "Ten," he admitted reluctantly, knowing exactly where his friend was going with his questioning.

"Ten **plus** you?" There was a hopeful note in Danny's voice, but Steve merely shook his head, shattering that tremulous hope to bits.

"**Including** me."

"Shit."

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TBC

_Well, there you have it. Thoughts? :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N New chapter finally up. I once again apologize for the delay and for not keeping up with the responses to your reviews. I so appreciate all your comments, and I hope you keep them coming despite my quite frequent lack of response. Thank you for reading! (I'll be keeping my fingers crossed that this chapter makes sense)**

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**Chapter 3**

"Did you get through to all of them?" Danny asked from the threshold to Steve's office, as he watched the taller man put down the phone and lean wearily back in his chair.

Steve gave him a pained look that made the corners of Danny's mouth pinch in worry. "Everyone but one," he confirmed grimly.

"Could be nothing," the blond tried.

"Yeah."

Steve didn't sound at all convinced, and Danny couldn't really blame him. So to take his friend's mind off what was likely a dire outcome for yet another one of his brothers in arms, he decided on a tactic of diversion.

"So, before this office gets overrun by an army of your clones and you all switch into SEAL-speak mode that no normal humans can understand, why don't you tell me what your thoughts are here. Anyone comes to mind as far as suspects?"

Steve shook his head grimly. "I've been racking my brains over this ever since I got the two previous letters, Danny. I got nothing."

"And nothing else ties all of you together except for your time in Iraq?" At Steve's nod of affirmation he probed cautiously further. "Did anything happen there that-?"

"No." Steve rose stiffly and walked around the back of his chair to stand in front of the medal display case behind it, his back to Danny. Several long minutes passed in silence, as he stood there, lost in thought. "I brought them all back, Danny," he said finally, his voice - a strangled mix of anger and remorse. "I got them out of the country and back to their families. Safe and sound. And now some lunatic is taking them out one by one, and I haven't been able to do a damn thing to stop him." He huffed out a bitter laugh. "All I've done was make it easier for him to get to them."

"Steve, hey... no," Danny took a step toward him, hesitating at his partner's still too rigid, closed-off stance. "Don't do this to yourself, man," he pleaded, arms open wide. "Getting them here was a good plan. There was no way you could have anticipated that the killer would-"

"I'm their leader, D," Steve interrupted, still stubbornly refusing to face him. "I told them to come to Hawaii, and they did, no questions asked. The move was my decision. I'm responsible for the outcome."

He was blaming himself, and Danny knew his friend well enough to know that no amount of convincing on his part will make any difference at this point. Danny wouldn't be Danny, however, if he let that fact stop him.

"Your friend Doug didn't know the killer was already in Hawaii. He was taken by surprise. That's not going to happen anymore, though. You're getting the rest of your team in here, you're gonna tell them what we know, what to look out for. The next time they're gonna be ready for him."

"Unless he decides to bomb the headquarters and get rid of all of us at the same time," Steve turned to look at him at last, lips twisted in a gloomy smile.

But Danny shook his head, echoing his smile with a tentative one of his own. "Nah, babe," he assured, forcing his tone to stay lighthearted. "From what I've seen and what you've told me so far this guy seems to enjoy the process too much. Killing all of you at once would deprive him of all the fun."

Steve closed his eyes briefly, rubbing a hand lightly across his forehead. "That's... encouraging, I suppose."

He didn't flinch away when Danny placed a hand on his arm, giving it a hesitant squeeze. If anything Danny felt him relax ever so slightly under his touch.

"It's gonna be alright, babe. I promise."

A few days later Danny would regret ever making that promise.

H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50

"A novel? Are you shitting me with this, McGarrett?"

Steve heaved a small sigh, as he switched his gaze between his former SEAL teammates and a rapidly reddening Danny. Just as he had feared, problems began almost as soon as the blond detective pulled the "Ten Little Soldier Boys" poem up on screen and started drawing connections between the deaths of the four SEALs and the killings in Agatha Christie's book.

Steve himself had been incredulous at first. But he trusted Danny. Unquestionably. To the end. And he had no trouble casting his skepticism aside. His former teammates, however, didn't have the benefit of knowing Danny as well as he did, and Steve was disappointed, though not entirely surprised, to see their incredulity turn swiftly into a mixture of annoyance and outright derision.

And Danny, judging by the crimson tinge of his skin, looked ready to either explode or slug whoever was closest to him. The situation was rapidly spinning out of control.

Placing a calming (and perhaps a tad restraining, just in case) hand on Danny's arm, he turned toward the openly jeering SEAL and suggested, "Why don't you listen to what the man's got to say, Flynn, before you start knocking it."

The suggestion held just a hint of warning, but it would have been enough to anyone who knew him. Still his former subordinate obstinately refused to pay it any heed.

"Don't tell me you're buying into this nonsense, Smooth Dog," the broad-faced, red-haired fellow challenged, pointing disdainfully at the screen. "Your cop friend would have us believe that some jerk out there is running around the country reenacting scenes from some cheap crime novel. That's-"

"First of all," Danny spoke up, his voice tight with anger, "it's Agatha Christie, a classic by all counts. And I should think that I have given you enough information here to support my theory. All of the four murders followed the poem to the letter."

"So now what," another SEAL queried, glancing at his former superior, who had gone briefly back to his desk to get the previous day's mail and was now sifting through it, while keeping a careful eye on the men.

Steve opened his mouth to reply but was beaten to the punch by Flynn, who, not knowing Danny's volatile temper, wasn't quite ready yet to play nice.

"Now I reckon we should be expecting to run into a hive of bees," he said in a half laugh.

"I wouldn't be laughing if I were you," Danny cautioned, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "This guy already managed to wipe out almost half of your team, and he won't have any trouble taking care of the rest if you choose to be idiots and ignore the warnings."

"And what warnings would those be?" the SEAL questioned, his sun-tanned face creased in annoyance . "Don't go near bee hives?"

"Actually," Steve cut in darkly, fingering a newspaper cutout and a white note from a freshly opened envelope, "I don't think we need to worry about bee hives anymore."

Danny took one look at his face and was beside him in an instant, even as he continued hollowly, "There's a newspaper article here about an apparent murder. A man was found locked inside a bee research laboratory, dead from anaphylactic shock. It says the man's face was so swollen from the stings that identification was difficult, but the police are fairly certain as to the man's identity."

The SEALs looked briefly at each other, all too aware that one of them was still missing and unaccounted for.

"Walcott?" Josh, a quiet, dark-haired SEAL inquired cautiously.

"Walcott," Steve confirmed, looking down at the note in his hand, his lips moving silently as he read the ominous words: _"Six little soldiers playing with a hive; A bumble bee stung one and then there were five."_

He felt his partner's warm hand on his shoulder and nodded briefly for Danny's benefit. Looking back up at his former team, he ground out: "That's five frogmen he managed to take out already. Five! All well-trained, well-prepared SEALs. Walcott never even made it out of Oregon. Kleinman got here and was axed to death the very next day."

The SEALs stared back at him somberly, even Flynn Jacobs seemed to have sobered up. "What do you propose, McGarrett?"

Relieved that they were finally on the same page, Steve laid out the rules he and Danny had previously discussed: "You need to move closer to office. Get a couple of rooms at Aston or another hotel nearby. No one goes anywhere alone. Stay in contact at all times. You trust no one, you talk to no one, you meet with no one. And, most importantly, you stay alert. I will be checking in with every one of you every two hours. Understood?"

A series of silent nods was his answer.

"Good," he nodded, satisfied. "You got my number. You see anything suspicious, you call me."

"Aye-aye, Captain," Flynn gave him a mock salute, as the SEALs all moved toward the exit.

They didn't get far, however, as they suddenly found their exit blocked by two HPD officers headed by Duke Lukela.

"Duke?" Steve furrowed his brow at the newcomers. "What are you doing here?"

The Hawaiian looked hesitantly in Steve's direction. "We got a lead on the murder," he said finally, reluctantly. "Located the car that was used to pick up the victim."

"And?"

Duke pinched his eyebrows together, his expression one of remorse. "It's registered to one Flynn Jacobs," he revealed, shaking his head at the horrified widening of McGarrett's eyes. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to bring him in for questioning."

Steve stayed silent, frozen in disbelief, even as his mind stumbled over this new information. Earlier, when Danny was retelling him the plot of the novel, the blond suggested that their murderer might be one of the team - someone with enough skill to murder another SEAL and someone the others would trust enough to let get close. At the time he had brushed the suggestion aside. But now...

Beside him Flynn stammered out a bewildered, "I... I didn't... Steve, you gotta believe me, man. I had nothing to do with this. I never rented no car, I-"

Steve raised his hand, silencing the man. "Go with them," he ordered, just managing to keep his voice steady, as he stared intently at his former teammate, trying to gauge his reaction. "Even if I believe you," he stumbled briefly over the words before forcefully taking control, "they still have to take you in for questioning. It's procedure." Nodding to Duke and his men to proceed, he added firmly, leaving no room for objection, "If your story checks out, they'll let you go and we'll come pick you up. In the meantime, I'll look into the car."

With that he turned sharply on his heels and walked back into his office, refusing to watch the police lead his former teammate away.

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TBC

_Now they are down to 5 and a possible suspect (?) Hmm..._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N I'm sorry, I've been really bad with responses for the last chapter. On most days lately by the time I do get to sit in front of the computer, I'm usually completely brain dead - writing anything intelligible at that point is virtually impossible. In light of that fact, I sincerely hope this chapter makes sense.**

**Thank you, as always, for being such a wonderful and supportive audience! Love you, guys xoxo**

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**Chapter 4**

The sign in the soiled window of a run-down Thrifty Car Rental said "Closed", the small parking lot - empty save for a gray older model Audi. Despite the sign's assurances, movement could be seen behind the grime-covered window, and Steve didn't hesitate, as he strode quickly toward the faded green door, pushing it open with such force that the glass panes rattled in plea and warning. Shaking his head in mute disapproval, Danny followed his clearly agitated partner inside.

"What the hell?" a pudgy, balding Hawaiian looked up from a mess of papers he was rifling through and shot the two incomers a nasty glare. "You, boys, can't read or something? We're closed."

"Or something," Steve shot back in a matching snarl, unclipping his badge from the belt and all but shoving it in the man's face. "Five-0. We need to see your records."

"Our records?" the man's tone quickly transformed from irritated to almost fearful. "Why?"

"He seems nervous," Danny remarked casually, moving to stand closer to the SEAL. "Does he seem nervous to you?"

"He seems very nervous," Steve confirmed coldly, his eyes never leaving the man's face. "Three days ago you rented a car to a Flynn Jacobs. That car was subsequently involved in a homicide." Taking a threatening step forward, he repeated, "We need to see those records."

The Hawaiian swallowed nervously under the SEAL's death glare and shot a quick, almost pleading glance at his computer.

"I... I can't," he admitted finally, spreading his arms out in a gesture of miserable helplessness.

"Can't?"

Feeling his partner virtually thrum with deadly energy, his voice slipping into a dangerous growl that made the smaller man take an involuntary step back, Danny decided to intervene before any bloodshed occurred. Taking a step forward, he purposely placed himself between the storekeeper and the enraged SEAL.

"Now, see, 'can't' is not the kind of word you want to use when life or limb is on the line," he cautioned, raising an admonitory finger at the now thoroughly terrified man. "And believe you me, they are. On the line. At this very moment." Nodding his head backward at the threateningly looming figure behind him, the blond coaxed, "I'm sure you're a smart man, Mr..."

"O-Okole," the man stammered out, swallowing harshly. "Pete Okole."

"Alright then, Pete," the detective dipped his head at him, allowing for a small, tight smile, "how about you give us those records so the big bad SEAL here, who is in the foulest of moods, I might add, doesn't have to go and hurt you."

The man shook his head, gulping soundlessly for a few breathless minutes until he was finally able to force out a strangled, "I'm sorry." Raising both hands in the air as both the SEAL and his partner took another step forward, he hurried to explain, "My computer. I... Someone broke in here. Everything's been wiped clean. I can't show you. I'm sorry."

"I don't suppose there's any chance these are **not** your paper copies?" Danny asked, pointing at the ripped and stained mess of papers that littered the counter and the floor behind it.

"Dammit!" Steve cried out at Okole's reluctant nod of confirmation and whirled around, slamming an open palm against the nearby wall in frustration.

"Can you give us a description, at least?" Danny inquired, casting a worried glance at his partner. "Three days ago. A red Honda Civic."

Okole shrugged apologetically, watching the taller man with a great deal of trepidation. "I was visiting my brother on Maui. I only got back this morning ... to this." Flustered he pointed at the paper mayhem around him.

"Who was tending the shop in your absence?"

"Mike Kaeo, my employee. But-"

"But what?" Steve barked out sharply, moving closer to the cowering man despite Danny's attempts to hold him back.

The Hawaiian swallowed convulsively, gripping the counter for support. "He hasn't shown up this morning. And I... I don't know if he's been here yesterday either. I c-can't reach him."

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but Danny beat him to it. Placing a calming hand on his friend's arm, he turned once more to Okole and ordered firmly, "We're gonna need the address."

H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50

Twenty minutes later Steve and Danny were standing in the middle of a small living room in apartment 2B on Birch Street, the body of one Michael Kaeo lying on the cheap carpet before them, neck broken in a clean, efficient manner.

"He's good," Danny acknowledged, shaking his head at the scene. "He cleaned up, made sure we'd have no means of identifying him."

He looked up from the body, his gaze settling on his partner, and he chewed his lip worriedly as he carefully considered his next words. "I know you're not gonna like this, babe, but I still think we should consider the possibility that one of your SEAL buddies is involved in this." Danny's voice was soft but unwavering, as he watched his friend's face tighten as if in pain.

"I'm fairly certain at this point that your friend Flynn was set up, as much as it pains me to admit it. The man has the finesse of a block of wood, but even he wouldn't be dumb enough to register a car in his real name. And this killer has been too good so far to leave such a clear trail back to himself. But I am still convinced that, whoever he is, he is a SEAL."

When nothing but sharp gritting of teeth was heard in response, the blond pushed on, stubbornly driving his point home. " Look at the evidence, Steve! The guy is obviously a professional - just look at how he dispatched this poor devil," he pointed at Kaleo's corpse, even as he began ticking off on his fingers. "He's powerful enough and skillful enough to take out five trained Navy SEALs. That's not something everybody can boast about on their résumés. He knows your team well enough to be able to frame one and get close to another without arousing any suspicions. Your other friend, Doug Kleinman - his murderer had to be standing at least as close as you and I are right now, if not closer."

Danny paused briefly, as his friend turned away from him, hands clenched at his sides. He might as well have been driving a stake through Steve's heart, and he knew it, and his own heart was bleeding for it. But Steve needed to hear this. Before the killer finished the poem. Before it became too late.

"What's the next line?" McGarrett's voice - tight and hoarse with barely suppressed emotions - cut in on Danny's musings and the latter blinked in surprise, uncomprehending.

"What?"

But Steve was already pulling out his cell phone. Understanding of what his friend meant came as the call connected and Danny heard Steve's hurried, almost perfunctory greeting to Duke. And with it came apprehension. _"The poem. Shit."_

He watched the SEAL's face carefully throughout the call, his breath catching as he saw the latter wince and slam his eyes shut before ending the call with a strangled "Thanks."

He waited motionless and silent, giving his friend time to collect himself, as the next line of the poem kept running through his mind like a broken record, _"Five little soldier boys going in for law; One got into Chancery and then there were four." _

"Flynn was found shanked in the holding cell about ten minutes ago," Steve's voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke, scrubbing a shaking hand down his face. "Duke says there was a note-," he broke off, his eyes - virtually dark with anger and despair - settling on Danny. "This is a game to him," he ground out, breathless, as a sudden wave of wild, helpless rage washed over him. "A sick, twisted game, and he's using **me** to help him butcher **my** men!"

Steve's hand shot out, grabbing for the first thing that lay on a table before him, and Danny flinched as a heavy glass paperweight sailed past him, crashing thunderously into the wall beside him.

"I'm sure that rattling you is part of his plan also," he noted quietly, chewing on his bottom lip as he surveyed the damaged wall. He looked back at his friend, who stood slumped over the table, the burst of fury-fueled adrenaline leaving him shaking, his fingers digging painfully into the polished wood, as if afraid of falling should he let go. Cringing in sympathy at the man's obvious distress, he closed the few steps that separated them. "The last time Wo Fat got you this rattled, you let him walk you right into a trap," he began softly, tilting his head down a bit to make sure to catch the other man's eyes. "If you recall, you flying off the handle that time led to Five-0's disbandment and you being framed for murder and running for your life. Personally, I would much rather avoid a repeat performance, as I'm sure you would, too. So how about you try keeping it together at least long enough for us to catch that bastard?"

He fell silent, waiting for a response, and released a breath of relief, as his friend gave him the tiniest nod of acquiescence. The SEAL straightened out to his full height, his face hardening, as a steel-like mask of deadly detached professionalism took over his features, erasing all trace of emotional vulnerability. The rapid change was astonishing, and only someone who knew Steve as well as Danny did could see the veiled remnants of his inner turmoil in the stormy blue eyes.

"Let's go," he commanded, pushing past Danny toward the door without so much as a" glance back. HPD will be here in a few minutes to take over the crime scene, and we have nothing more to do here."

"Do you mind telling me where it is that we are going?" Danny inquired, as he all but jogged to catch up to the furiously striding SEAL.

"I need to check on the rest of my team," was a curt response, and Steve was already slamming the driver door in Danny's face, forcing his short-legged partner to hurry wordlessly to the other side of the car, lest the Camaro should drive off without him.

* * *

TBC

_So, yeah, as most of you suspected, Flynn was merely a pawn in this killer's game. I had to make his murder fit with the theme of the poem - hence the arrest. I swear, some of these poem lines are a real challenge. I wonder what will be next... :-)_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N I am now hopelessly behind with responses. The concept of mommy-time has, for some reason, not caught on yet in my house (sigh), so here I am again, apologizing and thanking everyone of you who are reading this story! Thank you! I hope you appreciate the slightly longer chapter (wink). I tried.**

**Disclaimer: Sometimes I truly wish they were mine, because then we'd have a lot more bromance and the last few seconds of Ua Nalohia never would have happened. (just my humble 2 cents - I do like Catherine's character... just not this much.)**

* * *

Chapter 5

"Would you, please, keep both hands on the wheel, Steven?" Danny squeaked out, as Steve made a particularly sharp left turn on South Beretania Street, while scrolling through the contacts on the phone he, thankfully, had the foresight to place in a dashboard mount before driving off. "I'd like to make it there in one piece, thank you very much."

Steve threw him a look Danny could only describe as one of constipated annoyance, hitting the call button with a bit more force than necessary.

"Ty," he called out as soon as the call connected, hastily slapping the speaker button, "I'm on my way to the hotel right now. There's some stuff we need to discuss, and I need all of you to be there. Can you get the others?"

There was a brief hesitation on other end, and Steve knit his brows together, glaring anxiously at the phone, as he waited for the other man to respond. "Ty?"

"Uhm, Marty and I are here," came the halting reply, "but Joshy's... out."

"Out," Steve repeated slowly, his gaze flickering briefly to the man in the seat beside him. The anger in his voice was unmistakable, as he spoke again. "What do you mean 'out'? Where?"

"Some surfboard rental shop," the response was hesitant, almost reluctant. "Look, Steve, I know you told us not to go anywhere, but... well, you couldn't really expect a Cali boy to be this close to the beach and not be tempted to try and catch a wave."

"I **expected** a Navy SEAL to exercise a bit more self-control," McGarrett growled out, fighting the urge to slam his fist into the phone, as he swerved a bit too sharply around a slower moving car.

Danny's hand found his shoulder then, fingers pressing gently but firmly into the muscle, grounding him, reminding him of his earlier promise to stay focused, to keep his head. He swallowed harshly past the lump of frustration and fear lodged in his throat and took a deep breath to calm his nerves.

"Do you know which shop he went to?" He was sure Danny was proud of him at that moment, he actually managed to get the phrase out without sounding like a feral tiger.

"Uh... I'm not sure. Hang on..." Steve could hear his two former teammates talking to each other in the background. A moment later Ty was back on the line. "Marty says there were a bunch of flyers out in the lobby for 20% off surfboard rentals. He saw Josh pick one up."

"Does he remember the name?"

"Blue Planet Surf ... something. It's supposed to be only minutes away from the beach. He was gonna head straight there afterwards."

Steve didn't need to hear more. Flipping on the lights and siren, he spun the car around and tore off back toward Ward Avenue, leaving a cloud of smoke in his wake.

"Steve, man, I'm sorry," Ty's voice carried over the speaker, quiet, contrite. "We just figured... we looked up the poem again, and the next line... well it was something about the law, so ... we figured surfing had nothing to do with that. Right?"

He only gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaws squeezed so hard, he was sure his teeth would crumble under pressure. And it was Danny who responded, saying the words he himself couldn't force out.

"Your buddy Flynn was killed in the holding cell a short while ago. I think it's fair to say that the killer's moved on to the next line."

H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50

The employee at the Blue Planet Surf Shop - a young lanky guy in cargo shorts and a petroglyph surfer t-shirt, who was eyeing their badges and Steve's murderous expression with quite a bit of apprehension -confirmed renting a surfboard to a guy who fit Steve's description's of Josh Kowalski.

"Only about five minutes ago," he added, tossing his head toward a stack of rainbow-colored surfboards. "Picked one out from over there."

Steve was already starting back toward the car - his sole focus on catching up to Josh before it became too late. Danny's question stopped him in his tracks, however, and he whirled on his heels, staring at the clerk in restless anticipation.

"Did you see anybody follow him?"

The employee shrugged, uncertain. "I don't think so. I mean..." He hesitated, scratching the back of his head, and jumped slightly at Steve's impatient "What?"

"This one guy bumped into him over by the doors," the young man offered with another shrug. "Even knocked his surfboard down. But he was all apologetic; helped him pick it up, you know."

"What did he look like?" Steve was back in the clerk's face now, his gaze frightening in its intensity.

"I... no... I," the guy stammered, leaning as far back from the counter as he could without actually falling to put some distance between himself and the heavily muscled glowering ex-SEAL that towered threateningly above him. "A haole... a very hairy haole. Dude had some serious dreadlocks, man. Covered half his face. And sunglasses. I ... I couldn't really see."

Steve swore loudly, and a second later Danny was once again forced to go into a full-blown run to catch up to his partner, who had rushed out of the store without so much as a backward glance.

H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50 - H50

"You know, you should really stop doing that," Danny chided, his voice strained, as he fought desperately to keep himself from sliding off his seat during McGarrett's wild tire-screeching maneuvers. "This whole taking off and leaving your partner behind business. I mean, I get that we are trying to stop a killer here, but we are a team, right? Would it really be too much trouble to wait a few seconds before charging off like a bull in a corrida? Stop. Think. Plan. Give your partner a chance to keep up with your gargantuan strides."

He meant it lightly. Good-natured ribbing meant to ease the tension, to pull his friend back from the dark thoughts that were sure to pull him under.

Normally it would have worked. Normally. But Danny was wholly unprepared, as, following a bone-jarring stop, Steve turned sharply toward him, his face - a closed-off, frightening mask.

"I have to go now, Danny, if that's okay with you," he quipped, his voice holding no trace of humor. "If you have trouble keeping up, you can stay in the car and... plan."

The next moment the driver door slammed, and by the time Danny recovered from the initial shock, Steve was already running across the beach, his booted feet sinking and sliding on the sand. Pulling his own door open, Danny got out of the car, lingering a moment, as he watched his partner pause at the water's edge, his frantic gaze searching the waves for his friend.

As someone who has lost so much at a young age, Steve has always taken hard the loss of anyone he considered close. And now, as he was pounded with one loss after another within a maddening span of a week, helpless to stop any of them, the former SEAL was unraveling fast.

So fast, in fact, that Danny wasn't at all sure what another death would do to Steve's sanity. He could only pray that this time, at least, the SEAL would get to his friend in time.

Steve began wading into the water just then, waving his arms as he tried to get the attention of a surfer Danny had yet to see. And so the blond began jogging toward him, relieved that Steve's friend appeared to still be alive.

A loud boom of an explosion ripped suddenly across the calm azure waters, a column of frothy blue rising high into the air, spraying everyone and everything around it with shards of fiberglass and blood. Momentarily stunned by the sheer horror of it, Danny halted his forward progress, only to resume a much more frantic run a second later, as he saw his friend plunge fiercely into the swell with an anguished cry of denial, wild and desperate like the howl of a wounded animal.

Tossing the phone he took out to dial Chin to the sand, Danny ran. Harder than he ever had. Calling out his friend's name. Watching him cut furiously through the waves, before disappearing completely underneath the blood-tainted surface. He was up to his knees in the surf by the time he saw Steve reemerge, one arm wrapped tightly around the chest of another.

Danny didn't hesitate then, jumping headlong into the water and swimming for all he was worth. He met them halfway, grabbed hold of the one limp arm that wasn't encased in Steve's grip, and began to pull them back toward the shore.

There was a crowd of gawkers waiting for them when they stumbled their way onto the sand - a multicolored blur of faces and motion.

"Ca-call ... nine-one... one...," Steve gasped out beside him, and Danny just then became aware that the limp body laying on the waterlogged sand between them was miraculously still breathing. The explosion had ripped off both of Josh's legs, leaving behind mangled, bloodied stumps. Water has washed off some of the red, but fresh blood was already pooling around him, turning the sand there a gruesome rust color. But Danny could clearly see the tiny shivers that ran along the pale skin, the spasmodically trembling fingers and the ashen face pinched in unimaginable agony.

"Dear god...," the blond whispered, horrified, running a shaking hand down his face to wipe away excess moisture. "My phone... I"

"We already called. They should be here any minute," came a voice from above, and Danny blinked gratefully up at an unfamiliar face.

As for Steve, his attention was already drawn back to the dying man - for there was no doubt in Danny's mind that this young man was dying. A slow, horrifying, torturous death. And judging by the look of raw anguish on his friend's face, Steve knew the inevitability of it, too.

But Steve was Steve. And he wasn't ready to give up just yet. "Come on, Joshy," he ground out breathlessly, ripping his own sodden shirt to threads and tying those quickly around the worst of the wounds before moving on to cardiac massage. "Come on, come on!" he repeated, his voice taking on a note of despair, as his friend remained unresponsive even under the most vigorous of ministrations.

The EMTs were soon there too, and Steve was pushed rudely aside, as they took over the care of the wounded. They checked the prone man over, rattled off vitals, while Steve paced behind them like a caged tiger, raking his blood-coated hands through his wet mess of hair. He ignored the hushed chatter around him, the curious looks. All he could see was the gradual stilling of the jerky, spasmodic breaths coming from the mutilated body of his friend and the grim, discouraging faces of the two paramedics. And Danny, whose uncertain yet oddly reassuring, hovering presence was the only other real thing in his present world beside his dying teammate. The only thing that kept him from succumbing to the overwhelming, nauseating sense of defeat that threatened to drive him to his knees right there in the blood-soaked sand.

Danny must have sensed this, too, for in the next moment there was a warm hand on his strangely cold, trembling shoulder, and, dammit, if he didn't almost choke on a sob that swelled in his throat at that simple gesture. He closed his eyes tightly, fighting against the urge to lean into the proffered warmth, to relax. He couldn't. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Steve!"

He looked up upon hearing his name, surprised to see one of his remaining former teammates pushing his way through the crowd.

"Ty?" he acknowledged hoarsely, taking a step forward, steeling himself the best he could against the abrupt loss of contact with his partner. "What are you doing here? Where's Marty?"

"It's crazy over there - police cars, ambulances. He's trying to find a place to park," Tyler "Ty" Cuesta, a two-hundred-pound dark-skinned SEAL, nodded in the general direction of the road, his eyes riveted to the blood-spattered body that was half-hidden from view by the paramedics. "Is that... is that Josh? Is he...?"

One of the EMTs stood up just then, shaking his head in a gesture of regret. The crowd's whisper hushed in morbid anticipation. But as he was about to speak in the ensuing quiet, the ear-grating sound of squealing tires could be heard from the direction of the road followed by someone's scream.

* * *

TBC

_Hmm, I think I managed to throw in a bit of a cliffie here. Sorry about that (well, not really, lol). You will also notice the absence of the poem in this particular chapter. Not to worry. I'll make up for that omission in spades in the next one :)_


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